people watching

a late-night run to the local grocery store.

i watched a young father babble to his daughter, pointing out apples and pears, sounding out the names slowly for her.

behind us in the checkout line, a tired college student shifted her weight with a sigh, clutching only a simple notebook while waiting behind our full cart.

in the soup aisle, a teenager and his mom spoke in their shared language, eyes crinkling with a small, private smile.

and in the cereal aisle, an older man in a face mask reached for a box of breakfast porridge, his movements so practiced it was clear he had done this same small ritual for decades.